


To Break And To Heal

by PhantomDragon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dean x Reader, Dean x You - Freeform, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-05 20:47:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6722779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhantomDragon/pseuds/PhantomDragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reader wakes from a nightmare to find Dean struggling with own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Break And To Heal

Dreams are funny things. They can start out wonderfully peaceful then spiral into a nightmare so fast it makes your head spin. That’s what happened to you tonight. 

Dean had finally let you drive the Impala and all was going smoothly until a black cloud came out of nowhere and launched the car into the air for fifty feet. When it finally met the ground again, it landed with a sickening crunch on its roof, trapping you in your seat. You looked over to check on Dean and he was gone, only to reappear outside seconds later with ebony eyes and a knife of bone.

He doesn’t respond when you groan his name, begging him to help you. He just sits there, crouched beside the Impala, staring at you. Staring at the blood running freely down your face. You whisper his name again and this time he does respond, with a sickening smile that nearly makes your heart stop. That’s all he does. Smile and stare until the nightmare releases you back to the real world.

You shoot upward with a shuddering gasp and instinctively reach across the bed for Dean, but your searching fingers brush chilly sheets instead of his reassuring warmth. Forcing the haze from sleep away, you climb out of the mess of blankets and wander out through the dimly lit halls in search of him. 

The tile is cold beneath your bare toes as you keep walking, peeking into each ajar door, but still no sign of Dean. After ten minutes of searching, you seriously contemplate going back to bed when a soft sound reaches your ears. It came from the study. 

“Dean?” you whisper, inching toward the door. The only reply was a soft ruffle of fabric. You push the door open more and step in, your feet making no noise across the soft carpet. The lamp across the room shed a little light, enough for you to see a hunched figure in the chair beside the table. “Dean?”

Dean shot up in his chair, obviously startled, but didn’t turn to face you. “What are you doing out of bed?” he asked quietly. 

“Nightmare.” You didn’t need to say more. He knew you had terrible ones just like he did. “What kept you up?” you asked, kneeling in front of him. You only caught his gaze for a second before his eyes flitted down to the floor.

“Nightmare,” he answered gruffly. You didn’t say anything as he let out a shaky breath. Just caught his big hands in yours and traced the rough patches with your fingertips.

Callouses right beneath his fingers from hard labor, whether it was wielding tools to work on Baby or the hard handle of a shovel from digging up graves. The strip of skin between his thumb and index finger from gripping a gun. The pads of his fingers that he would never get smooth. 

The skin around his eyes crinkled as he watched your fingers trace his scars. The ones across his knuckles from too many fights. The ones across his palms from what seemed like endless scrapes against glass and rocks and even just the ground after being thrown down so many times. 

“…I was a demon again.”

Your fingers traced upwards to his wrists and forearms, not stopping their path after he spoke. You never encouraged him to talk about his dreams, always waiting until he was ready. If he was ready. 

Your touch was feather light over the swell of his muscle, running over the pale skin zig-zagging up past his elbow.

He took a while before speaking again, so long you started counting his deep breaths. _Thirty eight…thirty nine…_

“I… I _liked_ it.”

This time you did pause, because his voice cracked on the last word. Swallowing around the sudden lump in your throat, you kept going, rubbing tiny circles into his bicep.

“The, the rush. The freedom. I miss it,” he admitted, his voice trembling because the very thought despised him to his core.

Your fingers were in his hair now, smoothing the tufts that his fitful sleep had mussed. His gaze finally left to the floor to meet yours, the light reflecting off unnaturally bright irises. 

“I don’t know who I am anymore.” 

Such a small sentence. Spoken scarcely in a whisper, yet was filled with so much pain.

Your hand ran down the back of his neck while the other found his warm chest. 

“I know who you are.”

The features of his face shifted, creasing his brows and dragging the corners of his lips down in a silent plea.

Your fingers spread across his chest so you could feel his strong heart beat pulse through your whole hand. 

“A good man.”

A quiver ran through his bottom lip, traveling onward through his cheeks and his gaze fell to the floor again, unable to meet your eyes for the tears blurring his vision. His hands lay limply in his lap until you pulled his head down to rest on your shoulder and they snaked around your waist to hold you tight.

There you both stay, him clinging to you as if you were the only thing keeping him together, you with one hand buried in his hair and the other wrapped around his shoulders. Shoulders that started shaking with silent sobs. You held him close to you, your own tears slipping down your cheeks to spot his shirt as his tears dampened yours. 

Time ran away, trapping you in the moment, but that was all right. It was all you both needed. To break and to heal for the strength to keep fighting. Together.


End file.
